The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [91]
“They went crazy over my backbone,” Whitbread said. “As if they’d never seen one.” He stopped. “I don’t know whether you were told. I stripped for them. It seemed only fair that they . . . know what they’re dealing with.” He couldn’t look at Sally.
“I’m not laughing,” she said. “I’m going to have to do the same thing.”
Whitbread’s head snapped up. “What?”
Sally chose her words with care; remember provincial mores, she told herself. She did not look up from the deck. “Whatever Captain Blaine and Admiral Kutuzov choose to hide from the Moties, the existence of two human sexes isn’t one of them. They’re entitled to know how we’re made, and I’m the only woman aboard MacArthur.”
“But you’re Senator Fowler’s niece!”
She did smile at that. “We won’t tell them.” She stood up immediately. “Coxswain Lafferty, we’ll be going now.” She turned back, very much the Imperial lady, even to her stance, which gave no sign that she was in free fall. “Jonathon, thank you for your concern. Chaplain, you may join me as soon as I call.” And she went.
A long time later Whitbread said, “I wondered what was making everyone so nervous.”
And Horvath, looking straight ahead, said, “She insisted.”
Sally called the cutter when she arrived. The same Motie who had greeted Whitbread, or an identical one, bowed her aboard in a courtly fashion. A camera on the taxi picked that up and caused the Chaplain to lean forward sharply. “That half-nod is very like you, Whitbread. He’s an excellent mimic.”
Sally called again minutes later, by voice alone. She was in one of the toroids. “There are Moties all around me. A lot of them are carrying instruments. Hand-sized. Jonathon, did—”
“Most of them didn’t have anything in their hands. These instruments, what do they look like?”
“Well, one looks like a camera that’s been half taken apart, and, another has a screen like an oscilloscope screen.” Pause. “Well, here goes. Fowler out.” Click.
For twenty minutes they knew nothing of Sally Fowler. Three men fidgeted, their eyes riveted to a blank intercom screen.
When she finally called, her voice was brisk. “All right, gentlemen, you may come over now.”
“I’m on.” Hardy unstrapped and floated in a slow arc to the cutter air lock. His voice, too, was brisk with relief. The waiting was ended.
There was the usual bustle of bridge activities around Rod, scientists looking at the main view screens, quartermasters securing from MacArthur’s fifty-kilometer move. To keep occupied Rod was having Midshipman Staley run through a simulated Marine assault on the Motie ship. All purely theoretical, of course; but it did help keep Rod from brooding about what was happening aboard the alien vessel. The call from Horvath was a welcome distraction, and Rod was ebulliently cordial as he answered.
“Hello, Doctor! How are things going?”
Horvath was almost smiling. “Very well, thank you, Captain. Dr. Hardy is on his way to join Lady Sally. I sent your man Whitbread along.”
“Good.” Rod felt tension pain where it had settled above and between his shoulder blades. So Sally had got through that...
“Captain, Mr. Whitbread mentioned a tool room aboard the alien ship. He believes that he was being tested for his tool-using ability. It strikes me that the Moties may be judging us all on that ability.”
“Well they might. Making and using tools is a basic—”
“Yes, yes, Captain, but none of us are toolmakers! We have a linguist, an anthropologist, an administrator—me—and some Navy warriors. The joke is on us, Captain. We spent too much consideration on learning about Moties. None on impressing them with our intelligence.”
Blaine considered that. “There are the ships themselves . . . but you have a point, Doctor. I’ll send you someone. We’re bound to have someone aboard who can do well on such a test.”
When Horvath was off the screen, Rod touched the intercom controls again. “Kelley, you can take half your Marines off alert now.”
“Aye